Poem's Arrangement
by SoundBlue
Summary: Two persons are needed for a love poem to be alive. No matter if it's the love of one, and the indifference of the other. No matter it's the love of the one who is present, and the silence of the one who it isn't. Mainly Sherlock struggle. And John?


**Note: I have the main idea set in my head, but it's not written yet so it's still vulnerable to change. It contains Johnlock in a very soft, special way. You'll get what I mean when you read it and when more chapters appear to explain John's part.**

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_it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't_

_work_

_as all love_

_finally_

_doesn't work …"_

-Out of the arm of one love, Charles Bukowski.

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Chapter 1: The right words to fall asleep no longer exist.

"Why I'm even here, in this _midden" _he said intentionally slurred, with a decadent and contemptuous tone and then, looking at Lestrade, adding "With you"

Lestrade sighs. Was he… insulting in Scottish?

"You know, Sherlock—" he starts "I have been a sufficient number of years following your back and supporting your moans for you to think that you can scare me away now. Like, _seriously_—?"

Sherlock gave a wry face and dropped the performance of a foul-mouthed drunk. _It was worth a try_, he said to himself, knowing from the very beginning that nothing would work with Lestrade and it was really his, very improbable to work, last card. The man was just too fucking tolerant, and today that was a disadvantage.

"And… well, another of those?"

"No thanks. I do not believe in the efficacy of alcohol as you and, eighty percent of the world, certainly do" said Sherlock while stretching his slender, graceful fingers until the tip of the middle one made a slight sound of "stay away" against the cup of glass, moving it maybe five millimeters from his frowned face that rested on the bar.

"… Sure, fine" said Lestrade a little bit uncomfortable.

The plan was simple, or that was what Molly had told him.

"_Take Sherlock somewhere, he never strives for food so it better be some place, you know, to drink and enjoy a chat. Be sure to get some information. Although I know it's like dreaming, maybe you could even… reassure him"_

"_To drink and enjoy"_. Greg could not help laughing at the innocent imagination of Molly Hooper. Enjoy, a chat, with Sherlock? And then actually get information… from him?, the man who it's like an ancient Egyptian tomb, thought Lestrade, impossible to open at least that you decipher the hieroglyphics, also known as his facial expressions. He really did not know how he accepted such stupidity.

Sherlock could get along with him, yes, but at crime scenes, blood all over the place, one or two bodies lying in a strange environment and with an intelligent murderer to catch ahead. In those circumstances, everything would be pleasurable –well, at least for Sherlock, and for Lestrade too when they catch the murderer-, and everything will flow commanded by the deductions of Sherlock Holmes. But in a bar, talking about the routine of their lives, talking about… feelings, with alcohol that for one of them makes no interest at all and for the other it doesn't seem enjoyable because of the discomfort of the situation, really… no. _This will not work_, said Lestrade to himself while sinking even more in his stool. For a moment he came to think of how wonderful it would be if someone were to die drowned by a poisoned drink. Perhaps with a Sherlock so excited, Lestrade could get some information. But wait. Absurd.

Ashamed of this own thoughts and despair, Greg continued muttering to himself how nothing of this was going to work, again and again until it happened.

No water was needed. Certainly not. The tears in the face of a person usually strong, stoic, may be shocking. Can leave a person paralyzed. But then it passes, and one take it as a slip of the person, a time when he could simply not take it anymore, and that would humanize him, bring him back along with most of the human-beings who cry about any event in their miserable lives. No, of course tears were not needed. On the other hand, that, that face, those eyes slightly squeezing the tear ducts and making his eyelashes tremble. The mouth pressed only slightly forming a straight black line. And then the light "Eh—"coming from a dubious voice, restrained, made the whole plan, however stupidly poorly planned, regain form.

Lestrade found this even more disturbing than any tears, any sad story: This was Sherlock Holmes holding back a feeling, a feeling that was at the very edge of taking over.

Sherlock Holmes would never allow others to see him in a state of sadness. Greg even debated if the man actually allowed himself to feel such a thing. _God, is so bad that you cannot hide it better?_ Lestrade thought, until he realized that Sherlock was looking at him and his mouth was emitting sounds, words.

"… So, I better head to my flat. I'm not stupid and I know why you brought me here. But it will not work. There was never something to fix in the first place. You and Molly are dreaming too high in the clouds; I guess you two need a good case like me to clear your little minds. Oh, no no" he said, pointing in total denial when Greg stood from his stool," please remain seated. Enjoy your… dope. See you another time, hoping deeply that the meeting contains at least one dead body" said Sherlock without his usual composed tone, though his words were carefully used with the finer decorum –very unusual from him, at least when talking to Lestrade.

Greg knew the exact words he could tell Sherlock to stop him at the moment he attempted to pass the doorway. He knew them.

He knew so well that he came to hate the fact. In all other circumstances, he would have tasted it, he would have enjoyed every minute, even prolonging the unusual situation. But Greg did not want to enjoy this. Greg wished that Sherlock never would have lost the great advantage that led him in all circumstances. Greg wished that Sherlock remained being himself.

"Why do you want to return so quickly, Sherlock?" said Lestrade, but Sherlock walked on pretending not to hear or do not care. "You have no case to which you need to go to think and—"Greg automatically brake as if by instinct, but quickly returned to his purpose "and well, there's no one in that flat for you to see either"

Sherlock stopped. Just below the threshold of the door, a brief hesitation in his legs. Then with a fake smile he turned his face to Lestrade.

"Come on Lestrade, I know I appear like a machine, but I also need sleep to function. I will find a case in matter of days; I need to be a hundred—"

"Are you really going to sleep? Are you really going to get some sleep in that apartment when you know that John isn't there? You've been sleeping in the morgue every morning scaring Molly's colleagues that have thought of you as a corpse out of its place. If you really were going to sleep I would let you Sherlock, see… I just know it will not be that way. So come here. You have nothing to do there."

Sherlock's smile was gone. There were no tears –of course they weren't there. But again those eyes were too tight, the mouth too contained.

_Sherlock, God _thought Lestrade, when his companion usually stubborn and arrogant took his place again on a stool beside him, silent.

"John is dead, Sherlock" Greg said, wondering if he had said too much, but still with the necessity of assure himself that his companion would not try to leave him drinking alone again.

"Oh, genius, so—" and Sherlock could not continue.

Silence is never quiet when the brain of a tormented soul is giving a glimpse of so many words.

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A short chapter, because the second one is HUGE.

****I'm new in this, and also I'm not a native English speaker, so if I make mistakes it's because of that. Even if I'll try my best to check the text several times to not make horrible mistakes, I will be very grateful if you point out things that sound strange, or are wrong, or even suggestions in my writing and the flow of the story. Thanks for reading.**


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